He huffs, clearly deciding this isn't worth whatever his commission would be, and yanks open his car door. "You can't stop progress," he mutters, but it sounds weak.
"Watch us," Devon says.
We remain still, watching as he gets into his car, starts the engine, and pulls away from the curb. We keep watching until he turns the corner and disappears from view.
Only then does Devon deflate, his shoulders dropping, the bravado draining out of him.
He looks at me, and his eyes are worried. "What now?"
I swallow around the lump in my throat. "We will never let it happen."
"But what if—"
"No." I shake my head, looking toward the shelter. The roof is fixed now, the new section gleaming in the weak sunlight. The fencing is secure, the gates properly locked. "Look at everything we've already done. The roof, the fencing, the medical room. The fundraisers, the donations." I look back at him. "We're almost there. We've got this."
Devon doesn't look convinced, but he nods.
Candy nudges his leg, and he reaches down to scratch behind her ears, his movements automatic, comforting.
"Come on," I say gently. "Let's get her back inside. It's cold."
We walk back to the shelter in silence, but I reach out and take his hand, threading our fingers together.
He squeezes back, holding on tight.
And I hold on just as tight, hoping it's enough.
CHAPTER 25
DEVON
"I STILL DON'T understand the rules!" I yell over the roar of the crowd, clutching the banner so hard my knuckles are white.
Leila doesn't even look at me, eyes glued to the ice. "Nobody understands the rules! Just cheer when everyone else cheers!"
The arena is packed, thousands of people screaming their heads off, and I'm pretty sure I've gone deaf in one ear. The noise is incredible—constant, overwhelming, like being inside a jet engine that runs on enthusiasm and beer.
We're sitting maybe fifteen rows up from the ice, close enough to see everything, far enough that we won't get hit by a stray puck. Leila insisted on these seats. She said they were perfect, and she was right. I can see the players clearly, read the numbers on their jerseys.
Number 19. My number 19.
Not that I'm being weird about it or anything.
The banner we made is draped over the railing in front of us:PUCKS FOR PAWS - CHARITY GAME DEC 23RD - BE THERE OR BE SQUAREwith badly drawn dogs and cats scattered around the text. We spent three hours on this masterpiece, and I'm unreasonably proud of it.
The team is not allowed to advertise the charity event during games. Not an official league event and all that bullshit.
But guess what?
No one's stoppingus.
Suck it, NHL.
On the ice, the Wolves are warming up, skating in circles, taking practice shots. I park my eyes on Ace. He's impossible to miss, even among all the other massive humans in hockey gear. There's something about the way he moves, fluid and powerful, that makes him stand out.
Or maybe I'm just biased.
Yup. I'm definitely biased.
